


A Good Man Is Hard To Find

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Poor Sam, Serious wtf did I write, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7468584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He at least tell you his name?”<br/>Steve hesitates. “Bucky,” he says finally.<br/>Sam doesn’t laugh. He does not laugh.<br/>“That is a stripper name,” he says while he does not laugh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Man Is Hard To Find

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidheann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidheann/gifts).



> So Eidheann and I were talking about friends who overshare their, uh, private lives, and my misspent youth as the shoulder to cry on for friends who had awful taste in men. I would provide whisky and chocolate and pat them on the back and say reassuring things. And in return I would hear about things I did not want to hear about. In detail. So much detail.
> 
> So this is for Eidheann, happy birthday you beautiful creature.
> 
> And to Andy. I love you Andy, but shut up.

Friday, 6am

Sam Wilson liked to think he was a decent man.  
He worked hard, he recycled, he called his Momma at the weekend. If he took a girl out for dinner he was always a gentleman, didn’t push his luck (too much) and called her within three days. Yeah, he was a decent man. But he must have been an asshole in a former life to be saddled with Steve Rogers.  
No offense to the guy, he was an absolute sweetheart, a six foot tall literal cupcake. But he had the worst taste in men. And a real problem with oversharing.  
It hadn’t been so bad when they first met. Sam had been looking for a personal trainer and Steve, sweet natured but with a sassy streak a mile wide, had been perfect. Supportive when support was needed, teasing when being needled was the only thing that would get him to pick up his feet and actually run rather than coast along.  
Somewhere between heckling each other at the gym and stopping for coffee after a run around the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool they had become friends.  
Mostly it was good, the guy was fun to be around, loved baseball and didn’t insist that Sam start drinking kale smoothies and buy a nutribullet. Hell, half the pizzas he ate these days were the ones that Steve showed up at his door with when a game was on.

The problem was when Sam let slip what he did for a living, and when most people hear ‘Guidance Counselor’ what they think is ‘free therapy’.  
It had started small, just little comments here and there. And Sam, being a good friend, had made his own comments in turn, offered suggestions and tried to help out where he could.  
And that is how Sam ended up here, answering his door at stupid o’clock in the morning to see Steve with a hangdog look on his face, a carton of Ben ‘n’ Jerry’s and half a dozen hickeys forming a collar around his neck.  
“Can I come in?” he says meekly.  
Sam should slam the door and go back to bed. But Sam is an idiot.  
“Hey Steve, wasn’t expecting you until seven,” he says instead.  
Steve shrugs and fiddles with the carton of Phish Food. Sam holds open the door and steps back.  
“Come on in”.  
Idiot.  
Steve shuffles through the door, goes through to the living room and slumps on the couch. He winces and shifts around on the cushions. Sam suppresses a sigh and goes to the kitchen to make coffee.  
He sets a cup of coffee in front of Steve, along with a spoon, and props himself up against the doorframe. Steve cracks open the tub of ice cream and digs his spoon in. Sam drinks his coffee and doesn’t ask what’s happened. There isn’t a power on earth that will prevent him from finding out whether he wants to know or not. And he really, really doesn’t want to know.  
“So I was down at Howlies last night,” Steve says quietly, digging out a chocolate fish with his spoon.  
“Uh-huh?” Sam says noncommittally.  
The Howling Commandos is a gay bar that Steve is inordinately fond of. ‘I was at Howlies last night’ is usually how his sadsack anecdotes begin, you think the guy would have noticed by now. Sam has nothing against the place, but it’s frequented by the kind of clientele that looks at Steve’s musclebound exterior and doesn’t notice his 100% marshmallow interior.  
“And this guy came up to me, said he’d seen me around and wanted to buy me a drink”.  
Oh yeah. Here we go.  
“He was gorgeous Sam,” Steve says miserably, crunching on a chocolate fish. “Had this smile that crinkled up his eyes,” he taps his chin with his spoon. “Dimple right here. So fucking cute”.  
Steve scoops up a spoonful of ice cream and shoves it into his mouth. For a moment Sam thinks that’s the end of it, but no. Steve waves his spoon around.  
“He was funny and sweet. And his ass, jesus!”  
Sam tips his head back and lets it thunk gently against the doorframe. He briefly considers trying to knock himself out.  
“So we went back to my place, y’know for coffee,” Steve pauses for another mouthful of ice cream. “An’ he was all over me”.  
He drops his spoon into the tub of ice cream and tips his head back.  
“Oh god, he was such a great kisser. And biting too. He kept chewing on my lip,” he taps his lower lip, which is red and slightly swollen. “Unf. So hot, scraping his teeth over it and then licking. And I was just a mess, we didn’t even make it to the bedroom, he just shoved me onto the couch”.  
Sam closes his eyes and tries to think of tropical beaches, of clear blue ocean, of anything but his idiot friend describing his sex life.  
“Sam?”  
Calm blue ocean.  
“Sam!”  
Aw crap.  
He opens his eyes and looks over at Steve, who is waving a spoonful of ice cream at him, dripping marshmallow cream onto his carpet.  
“Have you ever been deep-throated?”  
Sam stares at him for a moment.  
“You’re getting Phish Food on my damned floor,” he says finally.  
Steve mutters an apology and goes to the kitchen to fetch a damp cloth.  
“I swear, Sam, I thought I was gonna come down his throat there and then,” he says, scrubbing at the blob of ice cream soaking into the carpet. “One second he’s pulling down my boxers and the next he’s got his nose pressed to my stomach. And it wasn’t all wet and slobbery like some guys can be. He kept sucking and swallowing, oh god the feel of it, Sam”.  
Steve goes back into the kitchen and drops the cloth in the sink. The reprieve doesn’t last, he comes back into the living room and sits carefully down on the couch, finally noticing his coffee and picking it up.  
“And just when I think I’m gonna finish there and then, he pulls off, flips me over and starts eating me out,” he says and gulps down a mouthful of coffee. “And he didn’t just point his tongue and stab at my ass like some guys, he got a hold of my cheeks with both hands and spread me open and really got it in there”.  
Sam lets out a quiet noise of distress. He slopes into the kitchen to make himself another coffee and maybe think about crawling into one of the cupboards. If he takes out all the cleaning products he’s pretty sure he could get into the one under the sink. But Steve would probably come looking for him. And open the door and keep telling him extremely personal things that he doesn’t want to hear, only this time in a confined space with no access to coffee.  
Sam picks up his fresh cup of coffee and walks back into the line of fire.  
“...So by this point I’m just wrecked, and he asks me where I keep the lube. I tell him the bathroom, and off he goes,” Steve waves his coffee at Sam. “And he uses my mouthwash, Sam!”  
For a moment Sam isn’t sure how to react. Dental hygiene is important, though.  
“That good?”  
“Yes, that’s good!” Steve burst out. “You know how many guys stop to brush their teeth after sticking their tongue up your ass, Sam?”  
Sam does not know. He doesn’t want to know. He has made it the last thirty years without knowing. Please God, if you’re listening…  
“So he comes back with lube. And condom. And takes me to the bedroom”.  
Any time now, God…  
“And he’s just so patient, taking his time getting me open. And we’re lying face to face so we could keep kissing, y’know. Nice an’ slow, didn’t just shove my face onto the mattress and get on with it”.  
Aww, fuck.  
“It felt really good, just kissing and getting fingered,” Steve sighs and sets his coffee cup on the table, picking up his spoon and jabbing at the carton of melting ice cream.  
“And he used his little finger, which was really nice”.  
“Huh?” Sam says.  
Fuck, no. No. I don’t want to know. Involuntary reaction, Steve, ignore. Ignore.  
“Well a guy will start with the index or middle finger, then add a second, then a third,” he scrapes up a lump of mostly solid ice cream. “You never had a girl stick her thumb up your ass while she gives you a blow job?”  
I said ignore, dammit.  
“No,” Sam says quietly.  
“You should try it,” Steve says around a mouthful of ice cream, and Sam is briefly grateful the didn’t bring a tub of Chocolate Fudge Brownie flavour. That would have been hard to look at at this point.  
“So most guys go index, middle and ring finger,” he holds the three fingers up. “Fine, but a bit blunt, kind of a shock going in. “But he did middle, ring and little finger,” he holds up the three fingers and wiggles them. “Goes in easier, and more range of movement. He didn’t just thrust in and out, either. He twisted and scissored and curled them too”.  
Steve motions with his hand, using his wrist as well as his fingers. It’s horribly, terribly hypnotic.  
“He wasn’t into all those porno moves either,” Steve says with a sigh. “Didn’t have me holding my legs up or having to crouch over him or anything. Just got me on my back, wrapped my legs around his waist and fucked nice and deep and slow”.  
Sam seriously considers bourbon. He’d settle for scotch. He’d take rohypnol at this point.  
“And he wasn’t bossy. Next go around he let me push him around, get him on his back and ride him. He said me bouncing on his prick was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen”.  
Sam is fairly sure that there are people in the ninth circle of hell getting flogged by the devil himself who have paused in their eternal torments to feel sorry for him. Poor guy, the sinners will mutter sagely to the devil, who will nod in sympathy before throwing them into vats of boiling oil.  
“When I woke up he was running around getting dressed, said he was late for work,” Steve drops his spoon back into his melted ice cream, his mouth an unhappy little line. “And then I came here”.  
Sam sighs. He is a decent man. he is also an idiot.  
“No reason that ain’t true”.  
“He didn’t leave his number”.  
“He at least tell you his name?”  
Steve hesitates. “Bucky,” he says finally.  
Sam doesn’t laugh. He does not laugh.  
“That is a stripper name,” he says while he does not laugh.  
Steve nods ruefully.  
“Yeah. I really thought he was different, Sam”.  
Aww, not the sad puppydog eyes, Steve. Dammit.  
They sit in silence for a moment. Steve doesn’t offer any more perfectly valid lifestyle choices that Sam completely respects but his life was so much easier when he didn’t get to hear them in so much fucking detail.  
“We going for a run, then?” Sam says finally.  
Steve shakes his head.  
“State of my ass? No, not up to it,” he glances up at Sam. “Rain check?”  
Sam is a decent man. Practically a goddamned saint.  
“No problem. Tomorrow?”  
Steve nods.  
“Seven am, the Reflecting Pool?” he says with a watery smile. “I’ll buy you coffee after”.  
Yeah,” Sam guides him off the sofa and towards the door. “See you then”.  
He doesn’t push Steve out the door, but it’s a close thing.

Saturday 7:20am

Steve Rogers is late.  
What the actual fuck, Steve?  
Sam walks along the Lincoln Memorial, past the steps and along the line of trees. The big, dumb dorito is never late.  
He passes two guys leaning against one of the trees, making out like they’re teenagers and jogs along the path. He stops, turns and looks back.  
You have got to be fucking kidding me, Steve.  
He walks back to the tree, and the two guys locked in an embrace against it. One dark haired and wearing a red long sleeved shirt, the other blond and in a grey t-shirt. Yeah, Sam knows that shirt.  
“Steve,” he says clearly.  
The two guys don’t respond, just keep sucking at each others faces. Steve’s hands are wedged under the waistband of the other guys jeans. The other guy has his hands up Steve’s too-damn-tight t-shirt, thumbing his nipples, and it’s bad enough hearing about this shit from Steve, he really doesn’t need to see it.  
“STEVE”  
That works, at least. They pull apart and Steve looks over at Sam, red faced (though possibly not from embarrassment). The other guy pulls his hands out from under Steve's shirt, pulling it back into place before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Steve’s hands seem perfectly happy to stay where they are.  
“Sam,” Steve says brightly. “This is Bucky”.  
“Hey,” Bucky says with a grin, all straight white teeth and killer cheekbones.  
“Hell of a name,” Sam replies. Bucky’s grin grows a little bit wider.  
“Short for Buchanan. Ma was Irish,” he says.  
“Sam thought it was a strippers name,” Steve says with a grin.  
Shut up Steve.  
“Oh yeah?” Bucky says with a leer. “Never know, you might get lucky”.  
Steve flushes and pulls Bucky closer. And no, that is not happening.  
“Steve,” Sam snaps.  
Steve finally pulls his hands out from Bucky’s jeans.  
“You wanna come for a run?” he asks. Bucky shakes his head.  
“No fucking way, Rogers. Pounding you gave my ass this morning it’s a miracle I can walk,” he says with a smirk. “I’m gonna go find a coffeeshop with a big squishy couch and sit my poor ass down”.  
Oh, merciful God, there's two of them.  
He gives Steve a kiss and a smack on the backside. “Come find me when you’re done,” he says, giving Sam a wink and walking off down the footpath. Sam watches him go.  
“You guys patch things up then?”  
Sam Wilson, worlds biggest idiot, why do you open your mouth?  
“Yeah, he came over to my apartment last night,” Steve says with a happy smile. “He wasn’t lying, he did have work. He’s a stevedore so he does a lot of early shifts”.  
“What the hell is a stevedore?”  
Worlds. Biggest. idiot.  
“Dock worker, unloads cargo ships,” Steve replies, that damnable smile still on his face. “Keeps him fit, too. Jesus, his ass. So tight. Unf!”  
Steve starts jogging, shouting at Sam to keep up.  
“And he doesn’t just lie back and take it, either,” Steve continues, voice steady despite the pace. “Pushes back and squeezes. I thought I was gonna have a heart attack”.  
Sam looks over at the reflecting pool. A man can drown in an inch of water, right?


End file.
